


Draw Your Swords

by FeuillesMortes



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, The Hollow Crown: The Wars of the Roses (2016), The White Princess (TV), Winter King: Henry VII and the Dawn of Tudor England - Thomas Penn
Genre: And smooching!, Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Mild identity crisis, Period-Typical References to Catholicism, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but maybe more like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-01-21 12:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21299543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeuillesMortes/pseuds/FeuillesMortes
Summary: Henry VII visits his mother's manor in Woking some weeks after his coronation. In a betrothal that seems unnecessarily long, the Lady Elizabeth has a gift for him.
Relationships: Elizabeth of York Queen of England/Henry VII of England
Comments: 24
Kudos: 143





	1. November 1485

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nami64](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nami64/gifts).

> *  
Humble gift for a friend who means a lot to us all!🌹 
> 
> *

The cold winds travelling along the River Wey seemed to intrude upon the manor, preying on every crevice and window to make its way inside. Life at the house was overloaded with preparations for the winter. To survive the upcoming colder months, the kitchen servants at Woking hastened to stock diverse varieties of food and spices, busy workers coming and going with dried fruits and salted meat, baskets full with oats, onions and cabbages, leeks and beetroot. Henry could see it all from his place by the arched window. A scent of freshly felled wood coming from the nearby copse carried in the wind blowing along the river, and he would have very much liked to be treading the manor's orchard again, were it not for the cold.

Henry knew that a great deal of the place’s bustling was due to his very presence. Although the manor had belonged to some of the most prestigious families in the history of the realm — the Kents, the Hollands and the Despensers at least since the time of Edward the second — frequent visits from a king were likely uncommon. Woking had once belonged to the most illustrious names of the land, yes, including his own mother Lady Margaret Beaufort, now Countess of Richmond and Derby. His mother had been in the possession of the manor for many years before it was taken from her, one of the many sordid acts commanded by Richard, late Duke of Gloucester — he who had called himself king, once his foe in battle.

He had made sure to reinstate his wronged mother as soon as he opened his first Parliament. He had gone further: Parliament had acquiesced in giving her the rights and privileges of a _ sole person, not wife nor covert of any husband, _so that her personal control over her properties would never again be threatened by the contrivings of any spouse. She was thriving in her position as the lady of the manor once again, as she was prospering at court in her role as the King's Mother.

Henry turned away from the window, turned his back on the chill greyness of the sky to face the room’s encroaching dimness. The faint swishing sounds of fabric and the crackling of the fireplace was all that could be heard inside. His mother surely had a singular way of being efficient. With time, they would make sure to turn that manor into a palace, but many renovations had already been arranged to accommodate another illustrious guest for the time: Lady Elizabeth, Princess of York and rightful heiress of her house.

Another of his mother's subtle manoeuvring: having once made sure that the pair were set with the necessary amenities — sweet hippocras spiced with nutmeg and cinnamon, a bowl of Henry’s favourite _amandes sucrées_ — she had departed with her lady to some unknown destination in the manor, claiming she had a role supervising the preparations for the winter but that she would be soon back to join in their company.

It was a polite excuse, one that after having been used before was needless to be employed again. The last few times he had met the Lady Elizabeth his mother had retreated to a different place to provide them with some privacy. It verged on indecorous, but Henry wasn't so keen on sticking to formalities when he was bound to do so every waking hour of his day from now on. If there was a downside to kingship, it could only be that: to be constantly watched by hundreds of curious eyes night and day.

The present occasion was different, though. Not many people knew of his location. The only sign announcing his presence in the house was the Yeomen of the Guard posted at the doors, watchful in their royal liveries of scarlet. Henry might have been an anointed king but he wasn't safe in his throne yet; treachery lurked on every corner.

The sound of rustling fabric stopped. 

“Is there something the matter, Your Grace?”

Henry dragged his gaze to where the princess was sat, her embroidery hoop resting on her lap, thread and needle hovering in the air.

One hand on the window sill, he gave her a faint, courteous smile. “On the contrary.”

Elizabeth shot him a long look, eyes almost cautious, before she bent her head towards her work again. She wore a simple black hood that fell like a veil around her shoulders in the style of the late French fashions that had swarmed the court in the past few weeks. Parted golden hair could be seen peeking from under her hood.

It was peculiar that she would ask him such a question when he could almost ask her the very same. Their conversations had always been somewhat stilted, prompted more by necessity and awkward politeness than natural curiosity, yet she had been uncommonly quiet that day. The last time he had seen her was at his uncle’s wedding to her aunt Catherine a week before, though at the time he had barely had the chance to exchange words with her. It had been the first day of Parliament, an occasion carefully chosen to attract as many lords and magistrates to Westminster as possible.

The match had been advised by his mother but Henry had brought the matter to the princess, Catherine being her kinswoman and another potential bride to bring more Lancastrians and Yorkists together in wedlock. Catherine Woodville, as the window of the late Duke of Buckingham, was one of the richest women in the land. At the time the princess had seemed delighted that the matter was brought to her attention, and the two of them had discussed the advantages of such a union at length over a round of backgammon.

The princess was surprisingly skilful at that game, her demure expression masking the artfulness of her hands and lulling him to a sense of ease when it shouldn’t. Henry had found himself several points behind her, and when he offered to settle his debt the Lady Elizabeth had only issued a merry laugh, claiming that she would ask for her reward only when the right time came. Both of them had had a bit too much wine at the time, he figured, if her glowing cheeks had been any indication.

Presently, none of that glow could be seen. The princess looked rather muted — even shrewd — as she pierced and weaved through the fabric enclosed in her hoop. It made him wonder not for the first time what she was thinking, what singular feelings hid behind her pleasant features.

The first time they had met each other it had been at a rather officious occasion at Coldharbour, his mother’s new residence bordering the Thames. Flanked by his long entourage, he had had not much chance to assess her beyond her looks, which were lovely. Truthfully, there could never have been a woman who looked more spotless, more befitting the title of a queen: all rosy skin and slender features. It should put Henry at ease; it didn’t.

After their first meeting he had not visited the princess for a whole month, but by his second visit it seemed there could be hardly a week without him stepping into a barge to Woking — that is, until the last preparations for his coronation, the opening of parliament and his uncle’s wedding, took place. 

Henry left his place by the window and took his chair again, the best one that his mother had chosen for him, covered in crimson velvet plush. He reached for his goblet of hippocras, still warm, and observed the Lady Elizabeth some steps across from him. Her slender fingers were working with ultimate precision, her brows — charmingly poised above her finely sculpted nose, a nose so fine and straight it could have been carved from marble — were knit slightly together as if deep in concentration.

Contrary to what he predicted, Elizabeth let her needle slip and it pricked her thumb, drawing a droplet of blood that rivalled the deep burgundy shade of her gown. She didn’t issue a sound. She brought the thumb to her lips and sucked on it pensively. Henry found himself holding his breath, strangely entranced.

“Is my lady hurt?”

Elizabeth raised her eyes to him slowly as if roused from a dream, then let go of her thumb. “Not at all, Your Grace.” She pressed the thumb to the inside of her opposite palm. “Such mishaps often happen to me. I've grown used to them.”

She answered him in such a resigned voice, he began to wonder whether she liked working on her embroideries at all.

“Does your craft bring you joy, my lady? Truly?”

Elizabeth looked at him for some seconds before blinking and drifting her gaze to the side. “There’s no much else to do with my time.” Her eyes returned to him and held his gaze in a straight look, voice softening in contrast. “It is quiet out here.”

He was surprised by her frank yet subtly veiled complaint. The daughter of a notoriously riotous king, one who had once been his most hated enemy, Henry knew Elizabeth was likely used to the court revels and banquets, the minstrels and idle talk. She had a large family, had never once been alone growing up, had never once been locked in house arrest. 

Goblet in hand, Henry returned her straight look, his words paused and testing, if not icy.

“I gather my lady would have liked to be back at Westminster by now.”

Parliament had also asked him when he would take the princess to wife, though in a much less subtle fashion. They had urged him as if the preparations for such an event weren’t already dutifully set into motion. 

The princess lowered her eyes to the embroidery resting on her lap. “I would like to be—” A fingertip traced after the lines of her design: flowers, pears and figs. “—where His Grace wishes me to be.”

A wise, political reply, though much less honest than what he would have liked it to be. She was careful; it seemed she never said a thing that she couldn’t take back in a way or other. War and conspiracies had done that to her, the realisation struck him at the time, war had done that to them both.

“I have made a gift for you, Your Grace, though I hope Your Grace won’t mind the simplicity of my gesture.”

Henry leaned forward, intrigued, and set aside his goblet. From somewhere in the plies of her skirt, Elizabeth pulled out a small square tissue which she handed over to him folded in two. He opened it to find the embroidered figure of a red dragon holding a rose. In another time, it might have been a favour a lady gave to her knight, a parting token of her devotion. His eyes roamed the tissue; every stitch was craftily put in its place. It seemed she was skilful at that too. The thought made him smile, and she surprised him by reciprocating the motion.

“I tried to do the Red Dragon of Cadwaladr—” She paused, colour rising to her cheeks. “Am I saying it right?” She flitted her eyes over to his own, but likely finding intense amusement in them, she lowered her gaze to her embroidered design again. “I… they said the dragon could be found everywhere at your coronation.”

_So the birds have been chirping at her, have they?_

“They were right.” Henry still held his subtle smile. “My lady was correctly informed, whoever was it that told you.”

The banners carried before him in his procession to the Abbey were the very same he had laid at the altar at St Paul’s for the _ Te Deum_: the flag of St George, the saintly knight of the English, and the Red Dragon of Caldwaladr, his uncle’s personal badge that Henry had adopted long before Bosworth to represent his Welsh ancestry. The pageantry didn’t stop there: the red rose of Lancaster was seen everywhere, as was the Beaufort portcullis — from that time on, crowned. 

Elizabeth glanced over to him again. “I heard it was… quite the festive occasion.”

Henry leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his lap, tilting his capped head. He was equal parts amused and confrontational that time.

“You would have liked to go, wouldn’t you?”

His eyes squinted at her, the curl of a smile played on his lips. _You would have liked to be crowned by my side_, he meant. It was possible that she harboured the same resentment shared by some Yorkist factions at court when they saw Henry crossing the nave on his own, the train of his long crimson mantle carried by the Earl of Oxford, crown carried ahead by his uncle.

A joint coronation would have been impossible: as his consort, she would have to be wed to him first. His coronation couldn’t wait all the legal procedures their marriage had yet to undergo; it was a matter of urgency. He had won his crown by right of conquest and the avowal of the peerage, of course — not by claiming as his the rights of the daughter of a house that, as prestigious as it was, should not have sat on the throne in the first place. Henry would marry the Lady Elizabeth for the benefit of England and the healing of a nation which had been too long divided by petty squabbles and warfare, not for anything else.

“My royal father was crowned long before I was born, Your Grace,” Elizabeth replied to his bait-like question with a calm voice and a limpid, too-honest gaze. “I have never been to a coronation. I would have liked to see it.”

_ I haven’t either_. _ I would have liked to see it, too_.

Attending a coronation and taking part in one were two completely different things, as Henry had come to understand himself. No one had warned him how oppressive the whole process could be, how heavy and tiresome. The long procession from the Tower, stalling every minute in stiff, brand-new clothes, too many heads lining the way and too many voices shouting at once; the constant changing of robes, the undressing — standing almost naked in front of all lords temporal and spiritual as they anointed him, the Lord’s Chosen — the touch of the holy oil surprisingly cold on his bare chest.

No one had warned him how unprepared his arms were for the ordeal, how heavy the ceremonial crown would feel on his head, how burdensome the globe and sceptre would weigh in his hand. No one had told him how oppressively still he would have to be as his shoulders strained under layer after layer of fabric as his lords redressed him — his arms held out wide open at the altar like an offering or Christ on the cross Himself. Every king should learn the taste of sacrifice.

Even the vigil at the Abbey on the eve of his coronation had been of little comfort. Having to knight a dozen men after his long walk from the Tower was an ordeal in itself as well: the whole process of the oath, the osculum and the washing of feet tiring in the dead hours of the night. And then finally, guarded from afar, the solemn silence of the daunting cathedral as the only company to his thoughts. No time to sleep. His knees had dug into the pew, rosary in hand, repentant lips in prayer. _ Gloria in Excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis. Lord, here you have placed me as has ordered your will. May your blessings shine upon my path. Domine Deus, Rex caelestis, Deus Pater omnipotens. _

He had prepared himself to turn into a glorious transcendental being at the moment of his crowning, a dweller existing between two worlds. He would no longer be Henry of Richmond, the exiled earl, but _ Henry, by the grace of God, King of England and France, Prince of Wales and Lord of Ireland_. To that day, he was surprised to find himself still quite the same person. 

Elizabeth was blinking at him. “Your Grace?”

Henry focused on her face again, shaking himself out of his thoughts. “I’ve also brought my lady a gift.”

She parted her lips slightly in expectation, her mouth forming an _'o' _that didn’t quite finish round at the end. _ She likes to be surprised, _ he made a mental note to himself, and he didn’t rush to present his gift any faster as the expectant look on her face bordered on delightful in his eyes. 

He did, though, eventually slid his hand into the pocket of his doublet to produce a small roll of parchment. Her brows furrowed in confusion when she took it in hand — she was expecting it to be a jewel or a garment, perhaps — and started unfurling its contents. She could not help but widen her eyes when her gaze fell upon the title: _ Titulus Regius_.

“I had Parliament repeal Richard’s statute. So were my wishes that it should be erased from the book and all other copies destroyed.” Henry searched her face, her eyes still intensely fixed on the parchment. “This is the very last copy. I bring it to you so my lady can do with it as she pleases.”

The bastardisation decree revoked, there was one less obstacle in the path towards their wedding. Henry would not have any stain of illegitimacy hovering over his future wife and queen-to-be. He might have been terribly short of money — his debt to the crown of France was still not paid, he could not afford any wars across the kingdom and even less an invasion should it come to that — but the stain over his queen at least, that he could remove with his freshly anointed hands.

His gift had a purpose: Henry had planned to personally tell her the news. He wanted to watch what would be her reaction to them, and most importantly, what would be her reaction to that last copy presented to her. That decree had caused her a great deal of pain in the past, he wagered. Would she tear it to pieces, throw it into the fire? Or, on the contrary, would she erupt in tears at the sight of it? 

He turned an intent eye on her, but the only emotion Elizabeth betrayed was the slight heaving of her bosom. She rolled the parchment back again and tucked it away among the plies of her skirt. Whatever emotion she was likely to express at it, she meant to do it away from his presence. It frustrated him, that she should choose to keep that side of her private. He wanted to _ know _her, and that he didn’t already was mildly inconvenient.

“I thank His Grace most heartily.” She said, much more formal than what Henry would like her to be at that moment. “I must confess, though,” She started slowly after a pause, an unexpected timid smile etching itself on her face. “I must confess that my gift now pales terribly in comparison to yours.”

“No,” Henry huffed a short laugh in surprise. “Your gift is lovely, my lady. I can assure you.” 

Elizabeth scooted to the edge of her seat so she was closer to the embroidery on his knees, half-bent and pointing at the stitched details of her design. “I wish I had done it with finer threads.” Her neck, framed by her dress, was craned in one long lovely curve. “The dragon’s underside would look lovely in gold, I reckon.”

He made another mental note to order sewing supplies to be delivered according to her wishes as soon as possible. He could make her happy — he _ wanted _to make her happy. It was an unfamiliar sensation, especially since he had been in no condition to make anyone happy for so long. The realisation was dangerously overwhelming, to say the least.

As her fingertips hovered close to the embroidery, chatting about her decisions for doing so and so, Henry noticed a detail he hadn’t quite caught in his first assessment of her gift. The small rose the dragon was holding in his right hand wasn’t a red rose: it was a white one, as if it was the representation of the princess herself. _Pensez à moi_, the small detail seemed to say. _Think of me._

_ The Welsh Dragon and the English Rose_. It had a ring to it. His subjects would appreciate it, he supposed, the image of the red and the white roses combined. The stitched rose was poised inside the dragon’s hand with utmost care. The creature didn’t crush it, on the contrary, he seemed to cherish it.

Henry looked from the embroidery to her face, her lowered lashes casting long shadows across her cheeks. He was taken by the absurd crave to seize her in his arms and take her in a long kiss. They could have lovely children together, heirs which would have the best claim to the English crown in all of Europe. It wouldn't be a chore. Henry found himself looking forward to the time he would plant his seeds inside England’s very soil, sprouts of red and white that would grow together like intertwined limbs in the bedsheets. His face grew hot.

She looked up at him and he was paralysed for a second, her eyes a mixture of brown and green and gold. As those eyes looked expectantly at him, he realised she had asked him a question.

“Your gift is exquisite, my lady.” Henry said for lack of anything else to say, yet surprisingly meaning it. He tucked the embroidery inside his doublet before turning to her again. “As exquisite as your very person.”

Her cheeks coloured a bit. “His Grace only says so because he is too kind.”

Henry shot her a pointed look, wry and conspirative, as if letting her in a secret. He leaned forward.

“Am I?”  
  
Many had thought him lenient, none had called him kind.

“Yes.” She returned the look in full. “At least I should like to think so.”

She had inched closer to him than she had ever been and Henry was trying hard to keep his eyes on hers instead of allowing them to roam free. He felt petrified in his seat and ready to pounce at any moment in equal measure, a rush that froze but set his heart speeding, all the more frustrating because he didn’t want to act on it. His gaze rose to the parted hair strands above her forehead. Her mother’s golden looks were said to have been legendary once, enough to turn the head of a king. Henry was coming to taste that truth himself.

“Elizabeth.” He started in a hollow voice. 

“Yes, Your Grace?”

She raised her eyebrows at him, perhaps surprised he had addressed her by her Christian name.

Henry felt emboldened enough. “Can I see your hair?”

She blinked at the edge of her seat and he swallowed. She was far too chaste for his impure thoughts, it seemed, as chaste as Diana herself.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your hair.” His voice was tight. There was no turning back now. “Let me see it.”

He was the Lord’s anointed sovereign and he should command, not ask, but he knew there was a fine line of gracefulness between the two to be walked.

Elizabeth blinked for two seconds, then pulled herself to her feet with her embroidery hoop and sewing objects in hand. _I have offended her, _the thought seized him as he watched her take her first few steps away. He shouldn't let it disturb him. No matter the outcome, Henry would remain seated. Kingship was a role to perform at all times.

He had reckoned she was about to leave the room, such was the blank look on her face, but her legs stopped by the small table where they had played backgammon the time before. She dropped her sewing tools and bent her head to her hands, poking around her hood.

“Would you—” She was pulling out pins from under the veil-like hood. “—would you lend me a hand?” Her voice went lower. “It’s difficult to do it on my own.”

Henry sighed with just a tinge of bittersweetness. Of course the princess would not have refused him. No one could refuse the king, no matter what their true feelings happened to be. Or better yet, whatever _her_ true feelings happened to be. He would be her king first, her husband second. There was no space for sentimentality between the two.

His legs took him stiffly to her side, a mixture of excitement and guilt colouring his steps. She gripped the edge of the table with one hand and was drawing out pins with the other. Henry came and stood carefully behind her, reached out a hand to hold the lapel of her hood as she went on with her ministrations, her knuckles brushing against his own so softly it was almost like a caress. The fabric loosened, then it slid along the hair strands on the top of her head. Elizabeth pulled the hood away and Henry undid the net holding the length of her hair in a bun. 

It was in a state of enthrallment when Henry ran his hands through her hair. It was truly the most beautiful colour he had ever seen. It was so silky and soft, her strands almost tickled his palms in their feather-like quality. He found himself holding his breath, the scent of lavender and rosewater ascending to his nose. He splayed her hair about her shoulders, her long locks falling down to her waist, then swept it all to one side of her neck. 

He might have been holding his breath, but the Lady Elizabeth was breathing deeply, her chest rising and falling in heaves. Henry encircled the wrist of the hand tightly gripping the table and her motions subsided.

“It’s beautiful,” Henry spoke close to the shell of her ear, the small curly hairs at her temple swaying as his words touched her skin. “Like yourself.” 

Looking from his height, he could only see the ascending roundness of her left cheek. His other hand landed on her opposite shoulder with a tentative carefulness, then Henry brought his lips to those first bumps of spine visible in her curved neck. They enclosed around her skin in a slow motion; she shivered. He parted his lips from her neck, eyes clouding, feeling half-intoxicated as if he had just tasted the sturdiest wine.

“Do I frighten you?”

He had been her enemy once, as she had been his. He didn’t wish to have her under strict coercion. He could always tell Parliament the lady did not desire to be wed and his lords would have to find a way to make peace with her decision. They had already recognised the heirs of _ his _ body as entitled to the English line of succession, after all.

Her voice roused him from his state of scorned paralysis. 

“No.” She turned around, bringing her body painfully close to his. Her garment brushed against his own in her turn. “You do not.” 

She tilted up her head, her lips hovering an infinitesimal distance below his own. It was an invitation, he could feel her breath sweetened with spices mingling with his own. Henry hesitated, wary of what one action could set in motion, yet Elizabeth placed a hand on his forearm and sighed into his mouth, causing him to lose whatever restraint had been holding him back.

He dived into her mouth with an eagerness that might have scared her — it _might_ have, had he given her any time to think. She brought her hands to his chest as his arms encircled around her, drawing her closer to him still. He would give her a real lover’s kiss and his mouth brushed hers with lips and tongue. Her bottom lip felt utterly soft; it made his own lips tingle with such pillowy lightness. Henry sucked on it, her hands gripping the front of his doublet tight.

As she gasped searching for air one of his hands travelled to cradle her head, tilting it in just the right angle for his tongue to slip inside her warm mouth. The tip of his tongue brushed hers just slightly, yet she shuddered and pulled back her tongue all the same, turned her mouth from his in the wake of what he could feel was an immediate reflex.

He had been too bold, yet he could hardly help himself. Never leaving his lips from her skin, he placed a wet kiss to the side of her mouth, to the underneath of her jaw, to the column of her neck. She whimpered — he didn’t know whether from discomfort or pleasure — and the sound of her exhale was heady in his ears. Elizabeth pressed herself even tighter against him, his left hand splayed on her cheek, the other one gripping her waist, before she took two steps back.

Her body slipped from his hands, leaving them abruptly cold. It was for the best: sense had fled from his head, his manhood had started to turn painfully stiff. Henry would have to seek confession before he could take communion again. He stood frozen, catching his breath, her eyes probably as large as his own pinning him in place. He reached for her wrist again but she turned towards the table. There was no much time to think before she turned back with a small pair of scissors. He gazed at those scissors, breath stalling for two seconds, before raising his eyes to her face.

There was a wilderness to her eyes, but an astounding precision in them too. His jaw set in cold resolution. _Then so it shall be_. The endless spilling of blood. There was a dagger placed somewhere in his own person, but he had never thought he would need to use it inside his mother’s house. It was inevitable, the work of fate itself: one of them would have to bleed in the end, be it on the cold floor or on the marriage bed.

Unaware of those ominous thoughts, Elizabeth pulled a lock of hair from behind her neck, ran her fingers through it, then cut at the tip. A few seconds were all that had passed, his heart arrested in time and turned upside-down like hourglass. It had just been a false alarm. 

He felt her prying open his hand, then pressing the lock into his palm.

“I would like His Grace to keep it.” Elizabeth closed his hand with a gentle squeeze, eyes locked on his own. “So that the memory of me will never stray too far from his mind.”

_ Pensez à moi._

His fingertips tingled to touch her again, but he only covered her hand, enclosing it between both of his own. She took on a breath as about to say something else — lips parting, chest rising — when the bell of the manor’s chapel chimed. Nine times did it strike, a booming sound filling the silence. Elizabeth slowly slipped her hand away; it was time for Terce.

"I will keep it." Henry replied at last, vowing in the same voice he had used at Rennes for the occasion of their betrothal two Christmas past.

He opened his palm to look at the lock of hair she had gifted him: gold, like the money he was so sorely in need. It could be a charm if he put enough faith in it. When he looked up again she had already covered her hair, her fingers pushing pins under her hood and setting it into order. Half-astonished, he realised a singular fact: she had not needed his help that time. How easily she had made him leave his seat.

"I'm afraid I must take my leave of His Grace." She smoothed her hands along her gown, palms pressed against her stomach. Then, she stepped dangerously close to him once more. Henry straightened up his spine. "Will I see you again soon?"

Her eyes, too soft and too warm for what they wanted to express, demanded a vow. Henry acquiesced with a single nod, much despite himself and what caution dictated.

"You will. I shan't be gone long this time."

The smile she gave him was luminous, a heart-shattering sight. “I will keep His Grace in my prayers—” She lowered her eyes briefly, cheeks reddening, before raising them again. “—and in my thoughts.”

She didn’t see how her words set his own face ablaze. Elizabeth sank in a low curtsy before leaving the room, the crackling of the fireplace the only sound left inside after her footsteps receded in the gloom. 

Henry let out a long-held breath, an uncomfortable sensation poking at his ribs like a blade stuck in between his bones. For entirely unexpected reasons, the princess was far more dangerous than what he had first thought her to be — the way she disarmed him so easily, how she divested him of any shield. Henry would have to be more careful from that time on. As it were, she was unlikely to leave his thoughts any time soon. He placed the lock inside her embroidery and tucked it inside his doublet again. It rested there, close to his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
> As you might have noticed, this fic was peppered with allusions to that one famous correspondence of Henry VII with the pope: _“The beauty and chastity of this lady are indeed so great that neither Lucretia nor Diana herself were either more beautiful or more chaste. So great is her virtue and her character so fine, that she certainly seems to have been preserved by divine will.” _ The Anglicised inscription _"Pensez de moy"_ was frequently found engraved in gifts exchanged between lovers during the Middle Ages.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading 🌹 feel free to share some love x


	2. December 1485

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based on the following speculation: [[x](https://feuillesmortes.tumblr.com/post/611236156369141760/feuillesmortes-ladies-much-to-think-about-i)]

Softly, the scarlet cloth yielded to the snipping of a pair of silver scissors, the rushing of a sibilant dancing sound. Swishing, sweeping down the floor, the satin settled round her waist as the seamstress pushed a series of pins into the space that gaped between fabric and flesh, marking the silent progress of a soon-to-be gown. Elizabeth stood painfully still, well mindful of any pricking, and kept her spine as straight as a spear as she let her mind wander unchecked for a few idle moments of silence.

There was something mildly soothing about submitting to the gentle ministrations of Mistress Lovekyn, wife of the king’s tailor, by now thrice holder of that position. Her husband George and his embroiderers had provided the king with an intricate robe of crimson satin for the occasion of his coronation, complete with white fur trimmings and a mantle of purple velvet — or so Mistress Lovekyn had said, chatting proudly about her husband’s most recent pieces. Elizabeth, of course, had had no chance to witness them herself. 

Instead, Elizabeth realised those fitting sessions had slowly turned into opportunities for gossiping, and judging by his previous visit the king had not seemed quite pleased with the state of idle talk surrounding his bride — at least if Elizabeth’s reading of him was any true. It was plain he wished for her to remain spotless, _ a king’s fare in marriage _ if anything else. Yet Mistress Lovekyn was hardly the one to blame: she kept quiet most of the time, but her silent ministrations provided ample opportunity for Lady Margaret’s companions, Alice and Edith, to start chatting over their embroidery hoops. They were related to the King’s mother by way of marriage to her half-brothers, as Elizabeth had come to understand, though lately it was hard for the princess to remember every new name that was introduced to her.

Their choice of topic on that week had left Elizabeth in a state of unparalleled agitation, one that, try as she might, she had not been quite able to shake off. _ I heard, _ one of them had pronounced, trying to look disinterested and intrigued in equal measure, _ that on the day before last Parliament has requested the king our illustrious sovereign to take the princess as his wife, and that much to their contentment the king has graciously acquiesced to their request. _

The news had found the princess in a state of unshieldness: their unexpected delivery struck her like a blow to the very stomach, depriving her of any air for a moment or two. _ At last_, Elizabeth sighed and sang in her heart, sending a thankful prayer to St Anne. Outwardly, though, she only shared a thin smile followed by a non-committal statement. _ I’m sure if such news are good and true my lady the King’s mother shall soon acquaint us with them_. 

Her expectations had not disappointed. On that same day, the Lady Countess of Richmond and Derby had sat her down to speak of a list of items they should make ready at once for her trousseau. The two of them wrote a long parading series of mink, sables, petticoats, slippers, gloves, sleeves, bonnets and frontlets, gowns of satin, crimson and velvet, cloth of gold, silks and furs, not forgetting also wolf and fox skins for the winter. It was not the end: following His Grace’s request, Elizabeth compiled a list of servants to be called into her household, as well as a list suggesting her favourite minstrels and musicians to assemble for the coming Christmastide celebrations.

It seemed the king was as fond of lists as his own mother, for Elizabeth had seen him on diverse occasions turning to one of his secretaries as he said _ Sir, do take note_, going on to enumerate a series of reminders he meant to keep for private recollection. His orderliness astounded Elizabeth at times. He looked so poised and sharp, she thought that if the light hit him at the right angle it would reflect and splinter as if touching the edge of a finely honed sword.

So far — and all in a short space of a month — the king had sent her ten yards of crimson velvet and six yards of russet, as well as a pair of fur-lined night boots for the winter, conveying by means of a messenger that it was _ his heart’s sole desire that she should be as finely apparelled as it befitted a true queen of England_. Those were charming words, certainly, and Elizabeth was well glad for their existence but she had gathered them since in her hands and she didn’t know where to put them down: she watched them slowly overflow the scoop of her fingers.

_ Should I thank him by sending a written message, should I please him by speaking of his generous, loving kindness? _The last time she had seen him Elizabeth had done her best to show her gratitude by crafting a gift, but the loudest of questions still remained: did the king wish for a wife that played at being his lady love? Or, on the contrary, would such pretence offend him? _Too eager _wasn't a queenly look, after all.

He had looked quite gallant in her eyes during that last time, solemnly holding her lock of hair like a vowing knight straight out of a chanson. For what did knights do, if not uphold their vows? His words, heavy and serious, had caused her heart to ascend to her throat, beating wildly like a trapped bird, but Elizabeth had quickly restrained herself before any nonsensical ideas could take root. They were nothing but two actors in a play trying to keep a kingdom together: the king lead with his cues, and it was Elizabeth’s duty to follow with her lines.

There should be no doubts: all a man sought in marriage was a wife that was _ obedient to his bidding_, _ meek, courteous and wise,_ _amiable and good. _ Everyone spoke of a certain affection between husband and wife but there had never been any mention of love claiming place between the two. It had been different in the case of her royal parents; Elizabeth had always known her match would be nothing if not political. Love was the stuff of mistresses. Companionship, perhaps — _ and an heir, _she added quickly — that was all the king wished of her. Given their families’ history, actually, it would be a wonder if they got along at all.

_ Yet he’s not a cruel man_, Elizabeth would try to convince herself at night in bed, cheek pressed against her pillow, whenever she thought of her cousin Warwick taken to the Tower. She would bring to mind the king’s cheerful face and that quizzical, singular sparkle that dwelt inside his eyes, a marvelously clear pair of irises. Those were not the marks of a villain, were they?

Once by chance, she had seen him at laugh with his uncle: Lord Jasper had told the king some jest or remark that made him shake his shoulders, arms crossed over his chest, chin tipped down as if trying to suppress a laugh that would look displaced if not unbecoming in his newfound regality. Elizabeth had strained her ears to hear what had caused such commotion in the king — she had strained her body so, tensed to the tip of her fingers, she felt an ache like a hollow carving inside her chest: what could have possibly made the king break his polished and cool demeanour? 

She found herself holding her breath on the days leading up to his arrival, pinching herself awake and pressing half-moons into the palms of her hands as she dug her nails into her flesh. Two and a half years she had spent on that sort of lingering limbo, unsure of what the next day would bring as she turned from _ Madame la Dauphine _ to the king’s scorned daughter to his bastard and then, lastly, to the Welsh rebel’s betrothed. Elizabeth had worn so many faces she hardly remembered how her name was supposed to sound under so many layers of skin. Remaining the king’s bride had not calmed her heart as she hoped it would, but now Elizabeth tried to make sense of what that parliamentary demand meant for her indefinite status. All the recent preparations pointed to one conclusion only. It thrilled her to the core.

Her fitting took longer than usual on that day, a mishap that wouldn’t have mattered at all were she not supposed to join the king and his mother for mass. Elizabeth bid Mistress Lovekyn farewell, putting on her cloak and gloves to go outside, then she asked her companions to go and fetch her cousin Margaret of Clarence, now a ward of the King’s mother, so they could join the royal procession to the manor’s chapel before the service began. Walking hand-in-hand with her twelve-year-old cousin always reminded her of her sisters, and it was with their picture in mind that Elizabeth steeled her resolve to appear perfectly composed before the king. Her sisters' very future depended on their mutually good relationship.

All things hinged on that delicate, slippery edge, all matters were veiled under that aura of possibility. Elizabeth fixed the long lapels of her hood falling down to her shoulders and smoothed her blue velvet dress as she crossed the courtyard to St John’s Chapel with Lady Margaret’s ladies trailing behind her. As she turned a corner, unwatched for a brief moment, she pinched her cheeks as well.

Life in Woking was uneventful. Sometimes, alone at night, Elizabeth would open the windows in her chambers to let in the night air weighing heavily overhead, staring at the starlit sky of the countryside surrounding London. She had done the same many times before while locked away in Sheriff Hutton. Back then she would think herself Argentille in _ Havelok the Dane_, praying that her champion would soon come to free her from the false king, her uncle.

Now in Woking Elizabeth would breathe through slow, punctuated intakes of air, thinking herself a silly girl. Several times had Elizabeth watched fresh snowflakes swirling down against the bare branches of the trees around the manor, flurries of snow too delicate to survive come the first hour of the day. It was Advent, time for introspection: Elizabeth would say her prayers for the coming of the Lord and let herself be drawn into the sobering December silence. Gusts of wind, nights larger than the sky pooling in, lengthening.

During those long, dark hours of the night, a swell of longing would wash over her, springing from a source so deep within she didn’t know where to place it. She’d let the cold winter air touch her bare cheeks with little to no protection in her nightgown, if only to feel something real shake her into existence. The brittle air helped her clear her head whenever she thought of her last meeting with the king: the way his hands had weighed on her waist, the touch of his lips on the nape of her neck, the feel of his mouth on her own.

Then a reminder of her lessons would slash that memory in two like the bitter end of a dagger, sharp as dawn: _ a prudent lady who is friend to virtue should never dwell in such impure thoughts_. It didn’t help that Lady Margaret had added an ermine bed cover to Elizabeth’s trousseau (_"for His Grace’s pleasure during the winter nights”_), an item whose inclusion Elizabeth was sure had painted her face a bright shade of red.

Lady Margaret had probably noticed her state of embarrassment. During the king’s last visit, Elizabeth had left his presence with her hood looking slightly askew, one-handedly fixed, though she was sure Lady Margaret had only spotted its mild state of disarray because she was a such a keen observer. It didn’t help the fact that the king had emerged from the same room not long after Elizabeth fixing his velvet cap, an unfortunate coincidence that made his mother’s face turn into a picture of shock.

Now the king had come again to Woking for a stay of three nights, yet they had not shared a single moment alone so far: Lady Margaret had uncharacteristically sat between the two, her book of hours firmly held between her able hands. Elizabeth didn’t know whether she should lament the fact or feel relieved by it; she and the king had averted more than one awkward look. Some heavy curtain had been unrolled between them and Elizabeth knew exactly where it came from.

That day the king was dressed in a long velvet coat of a dark maroon shade. He received Elizabeth and her companions with his usual courteous, perhaps practised, smile. Lady Margaret was already by his side as expected, which confirmed Elizabeth’s suspicions that they were only waiting for her arrival to proceed inside the chapel. She wondered whether she should apologise for her lateness but ultimately decided against it, stepping towards the king and taking the vacant spot by his side as she took off her white satin gloves and held them against her missal.

If Elizabeth were queen already they would be entering the chapel by two separate processions, but it was not the case, so instead on that day the king was flanked by two women during mass. Elizabeth stood by his left, the consort side, while Lady Margaret stood by his right, the honouring position reserved for the king’s favourite. Christ sat at the right hand of the Father. Her husband Lord Stanley, Lord High Constable and the new Earl of Derby, stood on her other side. No one came between mother and son.

_I heard my lady wept marvellously at the king’s coronation_, Alice St John had whispered. 

At the time, unable to stop herself and eager for any sort of news from the world outside Woking, Elizabeth enquired: _With joy? _

The woman’s face darkened. _ No. With fear, my lady. Fear for her son’s future. _

It would certainly explain the way Lady Margaret held her son’s hands every time he visited, the firm grip her fingers exerted over his own, that suggestion of cold and clammy desperation. Mother and son had a silent understanding between them, one that cared not for words. Elizabeth would often find herself falling behind with their conversations, though sometimes the king would turn to the princess with a polite smile — congenially, as if trying to include her — so Elizabeth would smile back, yet well understanding she would never share the same bond he had with his mother.

That truth made her sadder than she had predicted, an imprecise sort of sting. _ Would you feel the same way_, she had asked herself, _ if it was the Dauphin to be your husband instead? _ Then, her own prompt answer: _No_. The Dauphin had not crossed the Channel and challenged a king the way Henry of Richmond had.

Only bells and incense remained. The _ Kyrie _ and the _ Gloria _ went by in a daze, the _ mea culpa_, the crossing and the reverent inclining of the head at every _ Jesu Christe _ and _ Domine Deus _ coming like a second language to Elizabeth after all her years of worshiping. During her sanctuary at the Abbey, Elizabeth had had opportunity to attend every service, to sing every psalm and antiphon, to worship with every prayer in her lips, every hymn, especially during the months when her brothers…. when they…. when they had so fervently _implored_ God… Elizabeth realised she was holding her missal too tight.

She let it sit in her lap as she splayed her hands and gripped the edge of the wooden pew on either side of her. Her knuckles turned white as they enclosed on it, tightening. _ Too cold_, the day was too cold, the colour of raw grey wool, and inside the chapel it wasn’t any warmer. The first reading was taking place and Elizabeth had already missed the day’s choice of epistle. She panicked, but by trying to reach for her missal her hand touched the king’s, the exact presence she had so pointedly tried to forget about so far.

It was a futile action. Who could ever forget about a king when remaining in his presence? King Henry had his left hand resting atop his black velvet cap, an item that he had dutifully and piteously removed once he entered the chapel and laid his eyes on the altar. It was odd to see him bare-headed for reasons Elizabeth couldn’t quite pinpoint, as if he had been stripped of an essential piece of armour.

Her fingers brushed his own in her silent frenzy and she suppressed a small gasp of desperation. She caught it in her throat before it could escape and startle the audience, but it was too late: the king turned to look at her hand as she hastily retrieved it to her lap. She felt his gaze burning on the side of her face as desperate thoughts crossed her mind. _ Untoward, untoward, unto_— All of the audience got to their feet, a characteristic sacerdotal drawl following the commotion.

“_Dominus vobiscum_.” 

The deacon headed towards the pulpit and Elizabeth hastened to stand and make the sign of the cross thrice: head, lips, heart. “Et cum spiritu tuo.” 

_ “Sequentia sancti Evangelii secundum Johannem._”

“Gloria tibi,” She followed after some delay. “Domine.” 

It was in a state of simmering agitation that she heard the Gospel and the homily, sang the _ Creed _ and recited the prayer. Her lips moved of their own accord, her fingers fumbled with the pages of her missal. She thought about risking a glance at the king’s direction but was too embarrassed to try. She freely gazed at the back of his head, though, when they all turned to watch one of Lady Margaret’s pages go forward with the king’s offering for the chapel, a silver-gilt chalice.

The chaplain’s Latin words flowed freely in the air, a hush disturbed by his quiet words as he and his deacon worked the miracle over the altar. Now they were all standing, then they were all kneeling. She felt the king glancing at her direction and then quickly looking away. _ Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus. _Knees on the hard, freezing floor, hands held together, eyes lifted to the altar.

“_On the day before he was to suffer_,” The priest drawled in Latin, taking the host and holding it above the altar, _ “He took bread in his holy and venerable hands, and with eyes raised to heaven to you, O God, his almighty Father, giving you thanks he said the blessing, broke the bread and gave it to his disciples, saying:” _

Accipite et manducate ex hoc omnes  
_ Take this, all of you, and eat of it, _

Hoc est enim corpus meum  
_ For this is my body, _

Quod pro vobis tradetur_  
_ _ Which will be given up for you _

Knelt before the altar, Elizabeth and the king exchanged one long sideways look. Their eyes met as if by chance, locked together for a moment, before flitting back to where they should have been fixed upon from the start, the blessed sacrament.

“_In a similar way, when supper was ended, he took this precious chalice_—_”_ The very same chalice the king had offered, the princess noticed. “—_in his holy and venerable hands_…”

Taking the expensive object and raising it above the altar, the priest bowed, spoke of a _ new and eternal covenant_, a blood which would be poured for the forgiveness of the sins of many. Bleak scenarios of immolation set forward in her mind, beds soaked with blood and the dreaded pains of childbirth. Elizabeth had never felt such kindred with Christ. Never before had she been so close to understand the meaning of sacrifice, _ for the healing of many past injuries_, no less_. _Furtively, out of the corner of her eye, she regarded the king watching Lady Margaret’s chaplain receive the blessed sacrament, his devout profile like a sharp coin relief: nose, cheekbones, chin. 

She sighed, ever so softly. _ May the receiving of this body and blood not bring me to judgment and condemnation_.

Mass took on its slow, gradual pace as it approached its end. About to cross the doors, Lady Margaret was called upon an urgent matter related to the kitchens, the reason for which she quickly excused herself before the king and strode away with her ladies. _ This is my chance_, the princess thought, rushing to seize that unseen opportunity. Elizabeth gave her missal to her young cousin, subtly signalling for her to follow the King’s mother, before she stepped closer to King Henry. She channelled all of her mother’s bravery in the inhaling breath that preceded her question.

“Your Grace, if you could spare me a moment.” Her eyes sped around his retinue, that crowd of capped gentlemen fixing their curious gazes on her, before adding. “—alone, if you may.”

If she were queen already, Elizabeth could invite the king to come and join her in her apartments to be entertained during the evening. She would call on the best musicians available in the palace, perhaps even ask for the clavichord to be brought so she could play it herself, charm him with a melody or two. There had been much merriment whenever her father the king visited her mother, lavish occasions filled with dancing and singing till the late hours of the night began to languish and wane. Elizabeth would offer the king claret mingled with honey, white apples served with almond cream and wafers and caraways until he was well-nigh drowning in sweetness. But Elizabeth wasn’t queen yet; all she had at hand was her looks and her wits.

The king exchanged a few words with his men before leading Elizabeth to a corner of the chapel, waiting as Elizabeth did until the place was emptied by all of the audience, priest and assistants included. Anxious minutes of anticipation followed suit, moments where she felt so cold, almost about to shiver, she rubbed her arms and fixed the cloak around her shoulders. Chill oozed from the flagstones to the soles of her shoes. She let her gaze wander aimlessly: St John’s Chapel was a simple place for worshipping, yet there was some lovely woodwork above the altar, not to mention an elaborate series of panels depicting the stages of the cross circumventing the walls.

Elizabeth was still searching for a way to ask King Henry about Parliament's most recent petition (_is it true? is the papal dispensation underway?_) when the king interrupted her half-formed attempts of a start.

“This is an interesting place for a conversation.” He muttered, perhaps to himself, before looking up from the chapel’s stone floor. “Well, here I am at your disposal, madam, though I must warn you we won’t have much time. You know they will soon come after me so we should be brief.”

Her face grew hot with bubbling vexation. All that trouble to get him alone, all the courage it took her to ask him, and the first few words he said were nothing but a poorly-veiled excuse to leave! They had done more than just kissing the last time she saw him and now he acted as if they were complete strangers to each other. Elizabeth took a deep breath, squeezed the pair of satin gloves she was holding in her right hand. Her eyes narrowed at him with more than just a hint of annoyance.

“Well, if they come, you can tell them to leave. And if they insist still, you can glare at them until they go, like _ this_.”

Elizabeth put forth her best impersonation of a glare, all the more sincere because she felt such righteous indignation rising within, yet her acting was cut short by an unexpected sort of event: the king’s completely unanticipated laughter. He pressed his twitching lips together before his laugh burst forward, lowering his head almost until his chin touched his chest, shoulders shaking as he crossed his arms over the golden stomacher he was wearing under his coat. Elizabeth had never made the king laugh before but she felt no triumph in the act now. All she felt was a terrible and green mortification. King Henry wasn’t laughing because of some witty remark she had said, no, he was laughing _ at her_. 

She looked down and fidgeted with her hands, feeling as if shrinking two sizes. “Forgive me, Your Grace.”

“_Forgive you__?_ Whatever for? For being adorable?” Elizabeth looked up in time to find the king’s thin smile, his pointed teeth, his blue eyes shimmering with mirth. “I don’t think so, my lady, no. Petition most grievously denied.”

“No…” Her cheeks were full aflame, her hands fidgeting, squeezing and twisting her gloves. “For being too forward, I mean.”

He took a step towards her, eyes pinning her in place. “I like when you’re forward.”

She was seized by a slow type of unravelling vertigo. His eyes were extraordinarily lucid, a seabound vortex, as if from spending too much time aboard a ship — she was afraid that if she looked too long at them she would be sucked into that vortex and be lost to the point of unrecognition, to the point of irrevocable abandon. Elizabeth blinked hard for two seconds, thrown-off and breath hitching, before letting her gaze drift to the side.

Perhaps her reaction, awkwardly breaking his stare, made the king check himself. He straightened his spine, standing to his full height, and cleared his throat with a fist to his mouth.

“In any case,” He restarted in a much more casual tone. “We should learn to embrace little to no privacy. There won’t be many chances for private conversation in the future.”

She met his eyes again, head tilting up like a challenge. “Except at night, in my chambers.”

It was his turn to be thrown-off his rhythm. He looked to some point behind her, above her head, at the niche statue of St John the Baptist at the end of the aisle, perhaps. Under his pointed arch, the saint held his staff-like cross with one hand and the Lamb of God with the other.

“I suppose.” 

Mortification ran in her veins anew; Elizabeth mentally chided herself for the second time. As much as the king said he liked her so, she had been perhaps _ too _forward. It was an unseemly statement for a queen-to-be, perhaps too much according to his standards. Were he more like her father, he would have laughed and winked by then.

“So…” His gaze returned to her face, cool and polished as the face of a shield. “What is it my lady wishes to speak to me?”

It was so astonishing how swiftly he regained his composure, all words fled from her mind; they left her in a state of painful inarticulation. Taking two steps back, she mumbled. “Oh, yes. Yes, Your Grace. I… I would like to… would like to ask you…”

The king raised an eyebrow, followed her retreat with two steps of his own. “Yes?”

Elizabeth turned and started walking (perhaps _ wandering_) along the aisle, bypassing one, then two, then three columns. “I thought.... Well, Your Grace asked me to compile a list of musicians for Christmastide.”

She waited for him to say something in response, but he didn’t, which of course he _ wouldn’t _since she hadn’t actually asked him anything other than stating a fact both of them already knew. She kept moving by short steps, unable to raise her eyes and meet the king’s.

“I thought that maybe it would be a fitting addition to the revels if… if the master of ceremonies were to—were to find an Abbot of Misrule, for instance.” Again, no comment from the king who by then now had apparently stayed behind. Elizabeth squeezed her gloves tighter inside her hands. “Does His Grace know what that is? First one needs to find a boy bishop—”

“I do, my lady, happen to know what an Abbot of Misrule is.”

_ Oh_. Judging by his stony, deadpan tone, perhaps she had offended him. The princess had not been sure whether King Henry had attended the same type of festivities in the Continent but perhaps he had, or perhaps he had come to know them before he had been… _ driven _ into exile, that was. What a girlish, tragic in its innocence, misstep! The reminder than it had been _ her father _ the one responsible for his years abroad made a new rush of blood ascend to her face — the king had probably been reminded of the same, was probably resenting her at that very moment — and Elizabeth halted her steps all at once.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. As you see, these are matters of no great importance.” Her eyebrows furrowed together while she struggled, hastily putting on her gloves as she prepared to leave. “Truly, I’m taking your time by talking about such trifling, frivolous—”

“Elizabeth.”

She turned to him as if jolted awake, holding her right hand against her chest, half in and half out of her glove.

The king blinked only once. “Come here.”

Startled into motion, she took some repentant steps towards him across the aisle as if sleep-walking, as if on a trance, stepping towards that statuesque presence that held so much command in his voice, that unwavering calm. She stopped, waiting for whatever it was that he wanted to say. His line was a one-word sentence.

“Closer.”

Another couple of timid steps.

“Closer.”

She stepped forward yet again, this time stopping mere inches away, acutely aware of their proximity.

The king extended his hand, palm up, in the space between them. “Give me your hand.”

Sheepishly, Elizabeth gave him her right hand, thumb sticking out of her white satin glove. The king took it in both of his own, surprisingly gentle, face softening in a half-smile. He took off her glove finger by finger, excruciatingly slowly, as if stripping her to her last piece of garment — a type of unveiling, like a bridal ritual: off fell every layer of skin.

Elizabeth rounded her eyes about the chapel, heart pounding, breath stalling to a difficult cadence at the thought of committing some terrible sin. But after all, wasn’t it a type of flaying, wasn’t it a type of undressing, to leave behind the trappings of her house to go and join him in his new rule, that new England of his? White, red and green, the colours of a Welsh dragon.

“If my lady wants to know whether I’ve kept her present,” The subtle line of his smile grew into full bloom. “I’d have you know that I have. I keep it right here,” He pressed her naked hand against his chest. “Over my heart.”

His voice was both soothing and upsetting at once. _ No, that’s not it at all_. Yet Elizabeth found herself smiling back, dazzled and feeling just a little bit off-kilter. Perhaps if he wasn’t holding her hand she would have swooned on the spot, smitten with a gaze. For in the stories, what did the Dragon do to the Princess? What did he do if not take her to his lair, to that unspeakable place of annihilation?

Yet the man standing before her eyes was a curious hybrid: Saint George as well as the Dragon, the fire that blistered the skin and the lance that pierced it, a beast in the shining armour of a knight. For she was exactly like that unnamed princess of the legend, scarcely better than a sheep: spotless, sacrificial, given to be taken up and swallowed up piece by piece. So where did that yearning come from, when had it first started, that longing to be quietly devoured?

_ Take this, eat of it, this is my body which will be given up for you. _

“It has kept me much company over the past nights.” His hand curled over hers, skin on skin, the bump of his coronation ring pressing against her hand.

_ Do this in memory of me_.

A shiver ran through the full length of her spine, breaking the spell. A reminder that none of those words was real jumped to her mind, bitter as a sea storm. _ As soon as I give him an heir he will set his eyes aside. _Once Elizabeth had grown round with child he would cease all his sweet gallantries and set his eyes on the next pretty lady at court. He would keep her in his bed as well as at his table for all to see, for that was the nature of men. And so it would be, again and again until she grew old and withered. Elizabeth would have to practise her smiles, hone them until they became sharp as weapons, grow spikes for skin. She would have to learn how to avert her eyes as much as her mother had once done. Love was the stuff of mistresses.

His face gradually sobered, the curve of his smile falling flat. Instead, his eyes half-squinted at her. He looked at her obliquely, along the bridge of his nose.

“Why does my lady look at me and despair?”

His question smote her full in the chest. “I do not!”

“My lady says so, yet her eyes tell me a different tale.” The king took a curious stance, unabashedly perusing her face with a calculated interest. Measured, analytical, cautious. “Sometimes I look at them and I find nothing but deep suspicion.”

Elizabeth hastily retrieved her hand. “I could say the very same about you!” Immediately realising the rudeness of her action, she stepped back, curtseyed and kept her eyes down. “Your Grace.”

_ A woman should _ _worship her husband both day and night,  
_ _To his bidding be obedient, _ _and serve him without offence._

Her words had been far from courteous. Elizabeth remembered the tale of the Knight of La Tour Landry: in that story, the angry husband had struck his wife to the ground with his fist, proceeded to hit her in the face with his foot so that he broke her nose. By arguing and vexing her husband, the wife had got herself a crooked nose, which everyone agreed to be a great evil. Caxton’s commentary echoed in her mind: _ Accordingly, a woman in no way ought to strive against her husband, nor answer him so that he take displeasure thereby, as did the wife of the burgess. _

Elizabeth swallowed, expecting to be struck across the face at any second. Yet, after a moment of silence, she raised her eyes to find the king holding her white glove, looking deeply wounded.

“I am not going to hurt you.” His words were paused and heavy, even pained. “Ever.”

Her relieved sigh clouded the space between them. _ Perhaps... not in church. _ Elizabeth didn’t feel comforted in the least; he _ would _ do so in the future, even if unwillingly. Everyone said the marriage bed was supposed to hurt. 

“With all due respect,” Elizabeth held her hands protectively against her middle. “I don’t think this is a promise His Grace can keep.”

There was a long silence. They looked at each other across the divide of centuries. 

“All my life, my name and my reputation were all I’ve ever had." The king raised his chin. "I’m not in the habit of giving my word lightly.”

A surge of pure grief swelled in her heart. Death, flight, imprisonment, persecution. Both of them had endured a little bit too much, both of them had tasted too much of that bitter fruit called fear. The war might be over but they were still swimming in it, drowning in it, adrift in a fear so vast it threatened to swallow the whole of England and take them both under. She did not wish for them to be stranded on opposite shores when they should be standing together.

“I am so sorry.”

The king blinked in surprise. “What for?”

“For what happened to you. For what happened to you… before you came here.” In her embarrassment, her voice went softer and softer. “I’m sorry you were left stranded and exiled, I’m sorry you were kept away from your mother for so long.”

Lord knew how much her own mother had wailed when her uncle’s men had come for Dickon. Lord knew how many tears they had shed whey they took him away at sword-point.

The king drew his eyebrows together in an anguished motion. All of the lit candles in the chapel flickered inside his eyes. They shivered and fluttered as if seen across a mirror of water, burning in those small, blue eyes. 

“How is it you don’t trust me and yet still you find room in your heart to feel compassion for me?”

Elizabeth was at a loss for a second. “Is that not the Christian thing to do?”

The king looked almost as if moved to tears, but it was just a trick of the shadows: he pressed his lips into a thin, resolute line. “Those days are in the past.” He straightened up. “I am king now.”

_ I am king now, _he said, as if he could right every wrong, wipe every smudge of unfairness from history with his will alone. And yet perhaps he could, if only she believed in him hard enough. Elizabeth lowered her head.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

He was about to say something when the steps of one of his secretaries clicked on the flagstones. The king half-turned, shooting the man the exact type of glare Elizabeth had spoken before as he pronounced in a loud, clear voice: _ Not yet_. Elizabeth bit her lip as a smile threatened to blossom, heart pulsing with a delicious little thrill.

“Elizabeth,” The king turned back to her, searching her eyes in earnest. “I did not make myself clear just now. I would that we bury those sorrowful days behind us. We—_this union_, I mean—is supposed to be an offering, a call to lay down our swords and strike the banner of peace.” He offered her white glove back. “Do you understand?”

She felt wrapped by his ages-old gaze, flickering, melting away like dripping candle wax. She took her glove back. “Why are you being so kind to me?”

He looked down, jaw tightening. “I’m not.”

“You are.” She stepped forward and was about to lay a hand on his arm, but he pulled back.

“A king can’t afford to be kind!” He raised his eyes again, face scrunched up, words clipped and strained. “Kindness is too costly a matter. I can only ever be generous, merciful, magnanimous. Never kind. Do call to mind what happened to my uncle, King Henry—”

At that mention the king must have discerned the hurt on her face, he must have realised the accusation underlying his words, the deeds of her father weighing her down. He stopped mid-sentence and sighed, rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger.

“Forgive me, I said we would put those grievances to rest and yet here I come laying them at your feet.”

“There’s just too much blood between us.” Elizabeth said in a small, dismaying whisper of defeat. “Too much death. We can’t just forget the sins of our forefathers.”

The king stepped to the holy water font, dipped his fingers with a clear, focused calm. “And yet, with the aid of God and His holy water—” He stepped back, made the sign of the cross on her forehead with his thumb. It slid along the bridge of her nose, brushed across her lips, left to right. He smiled. “—We’re cleansed from their sins.”

He should have kept on marking the cross on her heart then, but he stopped there on her lips, his eyes — one could say — almost affectionate. Elizabeth stood still as an idol, his thumb paused on her bottom lip, his fingers splayed against her cheek. She released a shuddering sigh in the silence that followed, her breath steaming the air in its ascendence. He swiftly drew her against him, lips covering her own in the rush of a sweet urge. Such a maddening throe she could feel it run along her whole body in its hot, quivering pulse and yet—

She pressed her index finger to his lips, pulling away and crying in horror. “Not in front of the Lord!”

His eyes went as large as she had never seen them, going past her face and towards the altar, to the red lamp burning before the tabernacle marking the presence of Christ. His face was drained from all colour. “_God forgive me_.” He whispered in a heartbeat, and then, his fingers encircling her wrist, “Come with me.”

He started pulling her towards the north side of the chapel, hurried steps echoing in the mute space.

“Your Grace, why are we—”

“I first knew this place when I was thirteen. Trust me, there is another entrance down on the left.”

They crossed the oak doors and stopped at the corner of the courtyard, breath rising up in clouds. The bite of the frosty air was almost too strong a shock, but all Elizabeth could think of was a way of not letting her laugh run free. She pressed a hand against her mouth, especially as the king tiptoed around the corner to take a look at their surroundings. _ Shh_, he shushed her with a smile and a finger to his lips. _ A king as stealthy as a cat_, the odd thought came to her mind, almost making her giggle. Yet he must have learnt to be so, he must have if he managed to survive all those years running for his life.

Elizabeth was still barely suppressing her laugh when the king turned back to her.

“Well, let me see. Where was I?”

She let her hand fall and felt her cheeks hurting from a smile she had not enjoyed in a long time. He grinned in response, his whole face transforming itself into a picture of light.

“Oh, yes.” He drew her to him, his left hand sneaking inside her cloak and around her waist. With a reverent motion, he removed his cap as if in front of a shrine. “May I?” He asked. And as she nodded, a little bit bubbly, a lit bit inebriated, he pressed his lips to her own.

Her pulse raced in her veins, the whole flow of her heart speeding. She should like time to go impossibly still, only so she could grow warm inside his embrace, warm until winter was all but a distant memory. For a moment she was neither grieving for her brothers nor afraid about the future. All things had acquired the pure simplicity of a birdsong, just as when those little creatures fly home come the golden hours of dusk.

The king was holding her with one hand and kept his cap with the other, so Elizabeth felt bold enough to raise her hand and touch his cold cheek, fingertip by fingertip. Under her touch, she felt the king shiver, felt his low hum travelling across her mouth when she reached further and laced her arm around his neck. Yet he pulled back, frustratingly so, just as she thought he was about to press closer.

The princess didn’t understand a thing, especially as he still kept holding her to him.

“Elizabeth,” He breathed close to her cheek, raising the dainty stray hairs at the border of her hairline overflowing her hood. “I do not mean to use you unwisely." He pulled back, shooting her a grave look. "I may not have made my intentions entirely clear from the beginning—and most will say that I haven’t—but I wish for you to be my lawfully wedded wife.”

She was struck speechless for a moment as he kept on speaking in his serious, repentant-like tone. The same tone one used when taking the holy sacrament of confession. "I mean to keep my promise in full and honesty. I would that I honour my pledge as a king and fulfill my duty to realm and crown.” His duty. _Their _duty; love was the stuff of mistresses. “I will not resent you for your house, and as for my own part, I…” He looked down. “I would that you not resent me for mine as well.”

He stopped, as if waiting for her to say something back, but as she didn’t — couldn’t — he let go of her and took another step back, eyes on the gravel path. Step by step he went back to the king she knew. Nothing agitated him for too long.

“There is something else I need to tell you. I’ve come to Woking with a different purpose this time." Cool, serious, recollected. "As we approach the new year and the papal papers have not yet arrived, I—and others as well—thought we should commit ourselves in a binding ceremony before witnesses and priest." 

“A binding ceremony?” She parroted, perhaps a bit lamely, perhaps a bit unsure. “Binding... to the fullest?”

His face grew slightly red, yet the king held her gaze all the same. “Yes. My uncle and his wife are expected to arrive at any moment for that purpose alone.”

If his _ uncle _was expected to come to Woking then it could only mean the occasion was serious and true. Elizabeth was shaken from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. It was all so sudden, for a minute it was hard for her to believe: if they bound themselves in an exchange of marriage vows — formally, that was, which she knew involved consummation — they would be in effect husband and wife in the eyes of God. Perhaps Elizabeth would even be able to leave Woking and go back to London.

“But can we? It’s... Advent.”

He smiled, a sparkle of mischief running in his eyes. “You _ can_, if you happen to be a king that requested a licence from Archbishop Bourchier.”

Slowly, Elizabeth mirrored his smile, inch by inch. She wanted to say something witty in return, but sheonly lowered her eyes demurely, whispering in gratitude. “His Grace is truly most wise.”

The king put on his cap again, fixed it on his fair, wavy hair. “It’s for a cause greater than you and I. England needs an heir, a time for healing. But now, my lady,” He reached for her hands, welcomed them in his own to glove them in white satin again. “We should go back. They will soon send the yeomen after me, don't you think?”

Lines from a romance read long ago crowded her head. Elizabeth was taken by a girlish fancy: she wanted to see whether the king issued a beam of light in his sleep, whether he had the mark of the cross on his shoulder like Blanchardyn or Havelok the Dane. She could trace it with her fingers, perhaps she could even follow the lines on his skin with her lips.

_With all his might he loved God  
And Holy Church and truth and right  
_ _Then was England at ease;_  
_Such a king should be much praised, _  
_He who held England in peace_

Whatever King Henry's truth was, Elizabeth was about to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
> * This chapter was also based on this discussion about Blanchardyn and Eglantine: [[x](https://feuillesmortes.tumblr.com/post/190326798604/feuillesmortes-on-blanchardyn-and-eglantine)]   
* The name of Woking's chapel is completely speculative and based on the fact that St John the Baptist was one of Margaret Beaufort's favourite saints. She's known to have possessed enamelled gold images that featured this saint and she founded St John's College in Cambridge. Perhaps St John may have been her family's patron saint, at least concerning her mother and half-siblings the St Johns, who, after all, shared a name with the saint.  
* The Lord of Misrule, also known as Abbot of Misrule, was revived at the end of the fifteenth century. Henry VII rewarded him ten marks for his work at Christmas, having one appointed for nearly every year in his reign.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading 🌹 feel free to share some love if you liked this chapter! And please stay safe during this difficult crisis x


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